


For What It's Worth

by brooklinegirl



Series: Things Fall Apart [4]
Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-19
Updated: 2001-10-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 22:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/pseuds/brooklinegirl
Summary: Response to one of the Missing Scene Challenges over at the A-Slash. A take on the thoughts and feelings going on in “Theory of Revolution."





	

I know this is only going to get me in trouble.

So stop doing it. I can’t fix things. I tried once; tried to fix it all, put the pieces back together, make it whole. I tried. It didn’t work. And the warranty’s way past gone.

So why am I setting myself up for trouble? Meeting it more than halfway? I’m supposed to be smart. Hell, by some standards, I’m supposed to be real, real smart. So why am I acting like a fucking idiot? Is it better to be acting like an idiot and know it, and yet keep acting that way? Or is it somehow better to be totally unawares of how utterly dense you are, safe in your harbor of stupidity, sure of your path, however destructive it may be, just because you don’t know any better?

Don’t change the subject. Something’s happening here, and however much you may want it to, it’s just not going to turn out well. Let it go. Don’t push it. Even though he’s encouraging it. . .even though he’s courting, possibly, that exact same sort of trouble that you’re chasing. . .don’t push things. Walk away slow and no one gets hurt.

Wish it was that easy.

It’s like someone else is taking the steps for me. I’m in there, sure, an anxious observer, but not in charge. Like there’s this path I’m following and I can’t get off it. I’m on slow-mo, and it feels like my mind is trailing behind, horrifyingly curious at whatever the hell it is that I’m doing. Like with a road accident, I can’t look away. And I can’t stop it.

It’s too much, I guess. Face, getting caught like that, in Hannibal’s fine, fine little plan. Getting caught the way he was supposed to, but that’s pretty much the only thing that went right here. Went the way it was supposed to go. As ever, Hannibal’s plans go one way and the events go the other.

So I should be used to it by now. But I’m not. Not used to it. Not used to Face’s life being in danger. Not used to him being locked up where we can’t get to him, where we can’t help him. Not that he needs help. Not that he can’t take care of himself. He can. But we’re a team. The four of us, I mean. A team, and we stick together, and him off on his lonesome like that makes me all itchy. Needed to get to him.

Wanted a chance to explain. Apologize for getting too close, when we’d agreed to give the friendship thing a try. I wanted another chance to just let it go. One of those, “hey, it’s all cool, let’s just be friends” moments. Only I’d really mean it, wholeheartedly agree, and things would drift back nice and easy and we’d be okay. I don’t know why I can’t stick to it. Don’t know why I push him. Why I cloak the flirting with the craziness, so he can’t object without sounding petty. Why I push and push, getting in his space, touching him too much. God, all the ridiculous flirting, when I’d promised to just let it all go. To be okay with just being friends. Because that was okay, wasn’t it? It’s what we’ve been all along, friends.

Sometimes more than friends, sure. But always friends first.

No reason we wouldn’t be able to keep that up, right? “It’s not you, it’s me, can’t we just be friends?” Whatever words he used (and Face sure is good with words), that’s what he meant. The problem with clichés is that they’re usually true. So I didn’t argue. Said friendship was just fine by me.

But the plan, as ever, interfered with that. I knew I’d been all flirty, too flirty, and he just didn’t get it, couldn’t understand why I was pushing when we’d decided enough was enough. This far, no further. I was gonna stop. Gonna explain.

Till he got beaten to within an inch of his life.

I stand here watching him, after it’s all over and done with. He plays it off, of course. Stands real easy, seems real sure. Not shaky, nope, not at all.

But I can see your hand shaking, Facey, as you move to push your disheveled hair back into place. You see it too, and bring it down to your side real quick.

Can’t ever let anybody else see the real you, can you, Face? Not how it’s done. Is that why “it’s-not-you-it’s-me”? Is that why you’re “just not ready for this right now”? What are you hiding? Why are you hiding it from me? What have you got to be scared of? What can’t you share?

I’m just watching you, smiling, sure, because this is the Facey I know. I can see you hiding real clearly, sometimes, when I don’t think even you know that you’re hiding. I can see the real you. And yeah, I’ve got that goofy grin on my face, trying to draw your eye. It works too, and when you look at me, when you see me. . .man, it’s electric, and any thought I had of letting this go. . .apologizing for the flirting, trying to go back to the way it was. . .all of those thoughts go right out the window.

I’m just so glad you’re alive.

So I kiss you. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I’m crazy, I can get away with anything.

You even let me get away with this. And I know you still love me, know you’re just as glad to see me as I am to see you, when you not only allow it, but encourage me. Howl with me.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Let me tell you, I thought I was just about gonna burst with happiness. Forget worries, forget doubts. This was love, this was true love, and it doesn’t get any better than this. So Facey had had his worries. This brush with danger (brush with death? Don’t think about that just now) brought him to his senses. He’s mine and I ain’t never lettin’ him go.

Wish someone had shared that information with Face.

*~*~*~*~*

He doesn’t exactly respond, but he doesn’t exactly push me away. He’s good, real good, for a while, like you’d never know that anything was wrong. That anything had changed between us. All the way home, I’m hyped up, on this utter high, wanting so much to be close to him. That’s when he starts to retreat. He’s kind of distant, but hey, the guy’s had a close call today, right? I can understand how he’d be a bit quiet. I figure, once I get him alone, he’ll open up, a bit (as much as Face ever does), let it go a bit, and might even want to engage in a few heated moments of passion as an outlet. I’d be glad to be of service there.

But it doesn’t happen that way. Like Hannibal’s plans, my assumptions are more than a bit off. Face is lost, not letting me see. . .not letting *anyone* see. . .what’s going on in there. He’s hurt, I know that much. A guy gets beaten like that, he’s going to be in a world of pain for quite some time afterwards. He’s sitting real still, gazing out into the far distance, and his eyes never focus on me, even when they look at me. I know Face. Know him too well. It’s not that he *can’t * focus (we’d checked for concussion, first thing). It’s that he won’t. Needs his space. Needs to hide.

Needs to keep me out.

More power to you, Face. It’s one of those things that astounds me about you, this ability to keep people out just when you need them the most. I can’t do that. I try to hide my love away, but that just makes it way too obvious. Heart on my sleeve and all that. Can’t hide it, even when I know better. I’m not saying that it’s a good thing to do. I’m not saying that you’re not seriously fucked up and that this isn’t going to fuck you up more. I’m just astounded at your ability to run away when you’re standing right here. Me, I avoid the confrontation. Discretion being the better part of valor, I have a tendency to back off, literally run away. Taking myself out of the situation is the only method I have for hiding away my emotions. I don’t have masks the way you do, Face.

I can’t hide in plain sight.

*~*~*~*~*~*

“Face.”

“Yeah?” The answer is distracted, as he focuses, scowling, at the mirror, dabbing at the cut near his mouth, trying to clean it up a bit. He’s dealing with the cuts and scrapes and bruises, of which there are many. Trying to reduce the possibility of any scars, or any more bruising. Gotta stay pretty. Gotta stay perfect. Lord knows what he would do, were any of that surface beauty marred.

Doesn’t matter, though he thinks it does. He’s standing there, clad only in those jeans (his shirt filthy and ripped beyond repair, flung into the corner). Bare-chested, barefoot, hair a mess, and he’s still beautiful. The cuts and scrapes, the bruises. . .they make him look like a tough guy. Tough, but hurt, and it’ll just make girls want to take care of him. Hold him. Fix him. Be close to him, so they’ll know he’s okay.

I know that’s what I want to do.

He’s still just dabbing at the cut, oblivious to the fact that I’m just sitting here on the bed, staring moodily at him. Yeah, I know I’m being moody, just as I know that he’s here only because he didn’t want to go back to Stockwell’s just yet. Wanted to come here to assess the damages. Hannibal knew, too, that Face needed some downtime to recover. I think the colonel was feeling a wee bit guilty, since he agreed too quickly when I suggested dropping both Face and I off at my apartment on the way back to Stockwell’s. Yeah. My idea, not Facey’s, though he didn’t argue with me. Didn’t voice an opinion one way or the other, but got out of the van agreeably enough when we pulled up outside my place.

Hey, I take what I can get.

“Face, you headin’ back tonight, or you wanna stay here?” Not what I want to offer. I want to offer a whole lot more. But sometimes I’m smart enough to figure out my limitations. With Face, there are a lot of limitations.

He’s finished cleaning up what he can here. I watch him leave my line of vision in the adjoining bathroom. Hear him turn the shower on. I’m still lying on the bed, scowling to myself. He re-enters my sight, as he grabs a towel off the hook on the door. Stops for a second and actually (will wonders never cease!) looks at me. “I’m probably going back to the house tonight.” He pauses, still looking at me, steam from the shower filling up the bathroom behind him. “Better that way.”

He walks away, and I hear his jeans hit the floor, hear him get in the shower. Hear his muffled groans as the heat hits his sore, bruised muscles, the water massaging him, working out some of the pain and…I need to stop thinking about this.

I need to stop thinking about this.

I want to drag myself away. Don’t want to be here, waiting, when he emerges, damp and warm from the shower. Shouldn’t be here. Don’t know how much I can take. Fuck it. How, how, how can I handle just being friends? I’m a smart guy, should be able to figure this out. But I can’t.

Guess I’m not that smart.

*~*~*~*~*~*

So while I’m planning on leaving, trying to get myself to head downstairs, maybe start dinner for the two of us (dinner is still okay, right? Dinner is still something we can handle), I never quite make it. He emerges, one of my threadbare towels wrapped snugly around his waist. A cloud of steam surrounds him. His wet hair is dark, almost brownish gold. I’m haunted by the memories of what we used to be.

He looks at me, and he’s so tired, I think he actually lets himself see me. He’s not been shying away; there’s just been an utter lack of depth to any of his looks. He’s been looking at me without giving me any of himself, and it’s cold when he does that. Makes me cold.

This time, though, he sees me. He’s tired and worn and he sees me. He’s just looking, no promises in his eyes, but just need. He wants me, he needs me, he loves me, but he can’t be with me. I know that and he knows that. We’ve tried that, goddamn but we’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Doesn’t work in a real big way. That’s why I get this look. He’s not asking, but warning. I want this, I need this, but don’t hold onto it, okay? It ain’t never gonna be more than it is, so don’t count on it. Don’t count on me. I can be your friend, and a better friend you will never find. And I can be your lover for a time. Can balance it for a time, but then it falls. I fall. And I can’t find my way back. You’ve gotta know that.

Yeah, I see all this in his eyes. I told you, we’ve been friends for a damn long time. I see all this, I know all this. I know I’m gonna get hurt, but hell, I’m hurting now. So I’m going into it with my eyes open. I know. So I ask you again: is it better to be doing something stupid and know it? Or is it better to be oblivious about it? You tell me, because I sure as hell don’t know.

All I know is this: I love him. I love him and I’m not going to let him stand there hurting, inside and out. Not when I can do something about that. Not when I can fix that, for a time. I don’t have that in me, to let him hurt. He’s been through enough. So much. Too much. Now I’m here, and anything I can do to make it better for him, I’m gonna. And there’s no guilt and there’s no hurt, no trip I’m laying on him. Because going into it, I know. I know just how much he can give, and I know it’s gonna need to be enough.

So when he gives me himself, like that, lets me see his eyes, lets me in, what else can I do? He’s standing there, hurt and lost, and what can I do but take him in my arms and hold him close? What else can I do? His damp head lays on my shoulder for a minute or two and his arms are tight around me. He wants me close, needs me close, to ground him. To make up for being that close to danger and death. It scares him, the danger, more than his need for me scares him. And he holds onto me and doesn’t let go.

After a moment, his head tilts up and his lips are warm on mine. All passion and need comes through these kisses he gives me, and I’m drunk on it. The fierce, unyielding need is here, and it holds me together as it pulls me apart. We’re on the bed now, as close as can be, and he’s trying to get closer, trying to be one. This is as much as he can give of himself, this sheer need that leaves him tremendously open. It’s all love and desire, building hot and fast and in that moment, when he comes inside me and his eyes are open, looking into mine, open and unshuttered and letting me see him. . .at that moment, I know he’s mine.

And that’s gotta be enough for me. I get that moment, and he falls asleep next to me, exhausted and spent enough to let me hold him close. When I wake up, my arms are empty and it’s just me again. And I tell myself. . .that’s got to be enough.


End file.
